


bedtime story

by wtfmulder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 20:05:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10624191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfmulder/pseuds/wtfmulder
Summary: Season one, set sometime after Darkness Falls. Mulder is a little anxious to keep Scully alive and does something without thinking. Prompts: I'm not attracted to you like that, Mulder walking in on Scully masturbating.





	

It’s actually almost pleasant, being kept awake by something other than the typical body-high guilt trip or his evolving list of irrational fears or even the ever-present knowledge of his inadequacy as a man as a vessel as a soul.   
  
But it’s also boring as hell, because normally it goes like this: he switches off the lights, he sits in cold, fatalistic silence, and then he flips through the pay-per-view and washes it all a way for a few blessed minutes. Recently even more than a few minutes. He’s more interested in plot than ever. This might be an unfortunate side-effect of working with Scully; he’s more critical of his porn, taking issue with ridiculous things like plausibility and realistic positioning and would-that-work-probably-not. She’s rearranging his thought processes and it annoys the shit out of him.

Good old Fox Mulder is currently backed into a corner, however, because he can’t watch _any_  kind of porn, not even the kind that would appease her scientific rigidity. Worse yet, it’s completely voluntary. Completely. There is literally nothing on this planet or elsewhere stopping him from getting his dick out and granting himself a little peace, except himself.

It turns out getting caught by the janitor on three separate occasions is not as sexy a scenario as certain counterculture would have you believe. The hottest thing about it was his face when he realized, for certain, why cats drag themselves out of the house to go and die. The humiliation is deafening. In his defense, no one came down to clean the basement before Scully arrived. They just let him wallow in his own depravity and it was a pretty sweet gig, but it’s not so bad, anymore, to not be alone. 

So now he’s taking a break. Just to see if he can, ya know? He wants to hit that sweet spot right smack dab in the middle of “I’m a healthy adult male who keeps most of his porn at home and jerks off because he’s horny, not because the idea of dealing with any other emotion is terrifying and he’d rather just ejaculate his feelings,” and “Hey my name is Fox Mulder, FBI. One day my partner Dana Scully, FBI, is going to shine a blacklight over the office and my ass is going to get fired.” 

What he’s actually finding is that it’s harder to keep a clear head. He’s _not_  obsessing over sex. He doesn’t really do that, anyway, and that’s not what the porn is for. It’s more that he’s thinking of everything else and that _is_  the problem and it just so happens he has a cure and it just so happens that that cure might be consuming his life. But it helps him to stop thinking. He’ll come and he’ll come to and get down to the nitty-gritty of the problem at hand. 

That problem, right now, is that he wants to figure out how to apologize to Scully without actually saying the words. This case has been… brutal. And they’re coming up on the anniversary of Samantha’s abduction, so he’s all out of sorts and he’s been hard to deal with. Harder. Harder to deal with. He’s not trying to scare her off anymore, he isn’t he isn’t he isn’t. If she leaves they’ll just assign him another partner, and one who won’t be nearly as nice and intelligent and genuinely interested in the work. The truth is no one has treated him with more respect in the years since he figured out the truth of his sister’s disappearance than Scully. Aggressive, pissy recluses aren’t born, they’re made. Well, sometimes they’re kind of born. He doesn’t want to get into that. 

But he’s a little overcome by how much he’s craved that in his life, a steady presence who’s a little enamored by his insanity, not scornful of it. And although he is at times suspicious of her and does not buy for a moment that disgustingly cerebral Dr. Dana Katherine Scully doesn’t know exactly what her purpose is in bringing him down, he is grateful for her presence. Really. It’s kind of like having the sister he’s always wanted (hah), right? One he can fight with and provoke extreme violence in and still at the end of the day, link their arms together in fighter stance that says, in resounding finality, “screw you.” 

So he’s thinking about constructing this wordless apology, probably in the form of a gross gas station bran muffin and a cup of real coffee, but he’s also thinking about the Clinton Foundation’s connections to MUFON, and the last episode he’d seen of _Days of Our Lives_ , and the time he’d been too drunk to get it up for Phoebe and she told all her friends about it. He’s firing on all wires. There’s not a thing in the world he isn’t thinking about. With the amount of complete and utter shit running through his head it’s a miracle he even hears the noise. But he does. And all of the blood in his body stills. 

Ever since the case with the flesh eating bedtime bugs he’s gone a little insane regarding Scully’s safety. Like, give-me-a-copy-of-your-key-here’s-mine and hey I know it’s midnight and you’re probably still asleep but you’re alive, right? Right? And more recently he’s been pushing the connecting rooms thing and keeping the door unlocked. He’s evaluated it, turned it over in his head, examined it until it makes more sense to him and less sense to everyone else. It absolutely has nothing to do a caveman urge to protect a pretty woman. At first he didn’t care more than the standard “I’ve got your back, you’ve got mine” philosophy you cultivate in the FBI. It’s different now. He has a partner now, a real partner, one who knows who he actually is and hasn’t run away. People stopped giving a damn after the regression therapy, but now… someone kind of _does_. He’s not about to let her be eaten up by prehistoric parasites or hauled off by the Greys.  
  
So when he hears the sound – a whimper, so soft and far away there’s no earthly reason for him to have heard it – fear lights up in him like the fire of hot coffee scalding your throat. Instant but not. Hot and then numb and then a little cold and then hot again.  
  
He throws his legs over the bed, grabs his gun, and tries real hard not to think about how ridiculous he’s about to look gunning down a hitman in his boxer briefs sporting a semi because adrenaline does that to him sometimes.    
  
The noise again, even softer now, and he’s galloping sideways to the door. He’s thinking of rope and tape and the closest thing he has to a friend who doesn’t smell horrible fearing for her life. He no longer has to worry about presentation. He is running on total fear. 

The door is open just a crack. He might have left it that way because he’s crazy, he’s thinking too much about Samantha, and he no longer has to worry about Scully walking in on him playing with himself. He inches up even closer, his arms pulled taught with the effort of holding his gun away from his body, and his teeth dig into his bottom lip. A moan, this time, louder, desperate. Shit. She is clawing through web as the bugs pick at her bones… she’s being lifted in the air and he can’t do anything to stop it… he presses his back against the door, gun pointed to his own bed, he nudges just so…  
  
Oh.  
  
What was that he said about thinking every single thing in the world? That was a lie. He had not been thinking about this.  
  
He brings his arms down, tries to get a grip on reality. On things. On what things. Just things. He doesn’t know. The aching relief only lasts a second – she’s not dying! That’s great. Wonderful, even. A terrific rage consumes his body like wild-fire. Who is it, Scully? Who’d you bring into our little world? What happened to linking our arms together? And then fear again, because what the _fuck_  is he thinking? Also: this is very, very unlike her. Is she okay? Should I help her?   
  
And then he notices – Scully hasn’t brought anyone in at all. Scully is by herself. Scully is grinding her hips into the bed like a mad woman. Scully is Okay and Alive. Scully does not need his help, or anyone’s. And the only feeling he is left with is tragically stupefying arousal.   
  
But get this – because it’s funny, it’s goddamn hilarious – the first thing he says to himself when he’s able to tap into any semblance of conscious thought is: this is okay. We are okay. Because I’m not attracted to you like that.   
  
And he isn’t. Hadn’t even thought about it. Right? Well shit. She’s playing with her nipples.   
  
And then he argues to himself that it’s just scientific curiosity. What on earth is she doing? He’s never seen a woman masturbate like this, upright and on her knees – and that just happens to be a genre he enjoys quite thoroughly. From his vantage point there’s not a whole lot he can see, like the positioning of all of her limbs, or if there’s some kind of object involved… jesus, if she’s fucking something, but as his vision becomes sharper and the edges of his world blur a little he lolls his head back against the door and notices her hands are wholly occupied, cupping and lifting her perky little tits away from her chest. She’s not uh. Fingering herself, then. And he’d be able to hear a vibrator or… a dildo, even… he would be able to hear it if she were using one of those. The lewdness of that particular thought makes him blush. The only thing he hears is the vigorous rustle of fabric… and then he spots it, makes a connection he’s quite proud of in his dazed state. Facing the headboard with her too-big t-shirt hiked under her arm pits, Dana Scully rides a folded-up pillow into oblivion.   
  
And you know what he thinks next? That he needs to seriously reevaluate his views on women. He hadn’t even considered Scully may have needs like humping furniture into the deep dark night when he chose to leave that door open.  
  
And he thinks about the unfinished 302′s sitting in his briefcase, and he thinks about that last episode of _Days of our Lives._  He tries to keep this going for as long as he can, but it all sort of fades to black when the hand not holding his gun rubs mesmerized little circles under his belly button, before sliding cautiously down. He cups himself tightly, and he tunes the hell in.   
  
Her mouth is stuffed with the collar of her shirt – probably hadn’t meant to make those sounds, then. Probably hadn’t meant to alert her coworker to just what it is she gets into when they close the unlocked connecting door. That she needs to gag herself to stay quiet is… something. But of course. She’s so damn loud when she tells him off. Why should this be any different?   
  
Also, talk about plausibility. Talk about scientific rigidity. Scully apparently suffers from the blight of all women: insanely high expectations. The speed and furor of which she snaps her hips into the pillow allows him a glimpse into her frenzied mind – whoever she’s thinking about, whoever is underneath her right now this very second, it is startlingly apparent she wants to fuck him into space. No man, not a single, pitiful one would last three minutes inside her. She fucks like she’s extracting souls. He is struck awed and dumb with his dick in his hand and his eyes fixed to her pretty, bouncing breasts, her fluffy hair, the hair that tickled his cheek when they both accidentally fell asleep on each other on the plane. And her _face_ , so agonized and coldly concentrated he’s sure he’s seen it before, right when she’s about to start arguing with him.   
  
Listen. There are reasons. There are a million plausible-realistic-scientifically-rigid reasons he needs to put her in certain boxes. Up until now he has done exceptionally well. Even on that first case when she stripped down and showed him the goods he hadn’t thought about her like this. Hadn’t thought about her like this when he cuddled her tiny body in the unthinking absurdity of a moment where he realized he nearly got her eaten by rabid lightning bugs. In boxes in boxes in boxes. But there’s just some shit you cannot compartmentalize. He’ll talk your ear off about trust and partnership and celibacy as appropriate punishment for being this broken but in this moment he is a different man and she is the same woman she’s always been. He toys with the waistband of his underwear and dips his fingertips in and takes them back out and dips them in again…  
  
What are you thinking, Scully, he always wants to know. Am I right? No? Okay. Why not? And he repeats this question into nothing, letting his gaze travel downward over the sweetheart curve of her back and to her straining thighs. He looks for fabric, string, anything and finds absolutely nothing, and the knowledge that she’s rubbing her bare pussy on the over-stuffed pillow makes his heart beat in his throat, his cock twitch against the cradle of his thighs.  
  
She mutters things into her cotton gag, balls it up in her mouth, sucks at it, throws her head back and tugs it with her teeth. And then her hands are roaming down her body, briefly disappearing between her legs… adjusting, spreading herself, grinding down harder against the pillow. He is yet again reminded how intense she is, how hard she works when there’s something she needs to prove.  
  
Face to face Scully looks softer than she wants to be with chubby red cheeks and big old eyes and it never, ever fails to make people underestimate her. He had. Only briefly, and he sure as hell knows better now, but he had.  
  
Here in moonlit side-profile she is transformed. She is hard angles and sharp little teeth and if someone were to lie beneath her they’d mistake her passion for the weather outside. Here she is more like Scully than he’s ever seen her.   
  
She comes to a rocking halt and drags a hand over her face, panting wetly into her shirt. She hisses and wiggles her hips, splays her knees out, tilts backwards and catches herself on her elbows. Her tummy is now exposed to his line of sight and he thinks – just barely, he can’t be sure, it might be a trick of the light – he thinks he catches a glimpse of the only heaven he’ll believe in, an unbelievably cute patch of dark, springy curls nestled between her spread legs. He’s been relying on porn for so long he’s forgotten the aching eroticism of the mystery of a woman who only gives you some of what you want and keeps the rest for herself.

She gets going again, this time arching her back and making the pillow fuck _her_ by holding it in place with deep pulls of her hips. She’s changed the pace, and though he has thus far kept himself out of the equation in an effort to maintain some kind of distance, he lets himself indulge in the image, one that projects itself so quickly and leaves him as such that perhaps it never happened. He imagines himself taking her this way – or would it be her taking him? – mouthing the sweat from the base of her jaw and letting her drag him, sweetly, into the sleepy pull of her orbit, like he said, right into space… and then he vows to himself to never think it again.

The slap of the headboard against the wall catches them both off guard. Her eyes slam open and she scrambles back to her knees, shoving the pillow away and pulling her shirt down with a speed that makes him feel dizzy. He panics, darting away from the door to paste himself along the wall right next to it. Then he notices he’s still holding his gun and tracing the outline of his dick through his underwear. He curses and lays the gun silently on the ground.

He should go back to bed. The enormity of his fuck-up tonight hits him in small increments, clawing its way through the severity of his arousal. Little pinpricks at his heart play tug-o-war with the rolling fire in his belly. And when he hears the tell-tale rustle of fabric, he’s too amazed at her tenacity to give up on the show. He’s never seen anyone want it quite as bad as she does. 

He turns around and inches forward to watch through the crack in the door – this angle is actually a lot better, he’s not craning his neck to see her, and he’s no longer visible to her should she happen to look over. Jesus he’s a moron. On the bed she’s stripped herself and she’s lying face down with the pillow underneath her and one knee propped up.

It’s like he takes a page from her book when he starts rubbing his hips into the wall. The pressure building inside of him is now completely unbearable, the lust pounding in his skin like a full-body headache. He’s made it far, so, so far, without actually touching himself, without actually freeing his cock and wrapping his hand around it and making himself come to thoughts of her, and this makes his clever diversion seem like a reward for his chastity. It’s great timing, too, because without her shirt she only has her fingers to chew on and they’re not nearly as effective at keeping her quiet. She groans and hisses around them in half sentences he can’t even begin to decipher, all the better, because they would surely siren-call him to some kind of miserable death. 

When she’s there, when she’s teetering, he silently encourages her to fall, no one has ever deserved it more –sports metaphors, century old poems, modern songs, entire religions and societies all built around the simple fact that justice is a deserved thing, and oh, does she deserve it. I think you’re the best friend I’ve ever had, he thinks, as she bites back a shout and pounds the bed with a closed fist, and moves, and moves, fucks the bed so hard he’d hear the creak her noises her call even if the door had never been open.

Jesus Christ. He almost doesn’t have to worry about the psychological repercussions of all of this. If he makes the unfathomably stupid decision to try and get her into bed he wouldn’t stand a chance. No way he could make her come like that. Nobody ever makes anybody come like that. Wholly implausible. Scientifically flaccid. And yet this time it’s her dragging him into the world unseen unknown definitely _definitely_ unexplained, and he kind of hates her for it in the same fashion she can’t stand him most of the time. The thought that he might make her this crazy and this drugged and this goddamned enlightened is almost enough to make himself feel better about what a huge stupid dick he is. He thought she was dying. She’s the only person who’ll stay in a room with him for more than a couple hours. At least she’s the only one who smells this good, is this kind to him, is so completely lovely and annoying and absurd it makes his head spin. And she’s so fucking _beautiful_ when she comes.

In boxes in boxes in boxes.

He leaves her like that with her body slumped on the bed, looking every bit as deceased as he thought he’d find her. She says something strange, something like “Why is he so damn crazy?”, but she’s probably arguing with him in her sleep. He’s caught her doing it before. He argued right back.

Now he’s so hard he can’t think about anything but immense pain. He waddles penguin-like to his bed and peels his boxers like gauze off a fresh wound, sucking in air through his teeth as his cock bobs and smacks against his stomach. He’s _soaked_ and turning a weird purple color. He could fuck the air and come his brains out.

He watches pay-per-view. Two ladies with fake tans and long nails get jackhammered within an inch of their lives and he spurts over his tight fist in a mediocre way that’s less satisfying than normal but still serves its purpose.

He decides his non-apology won’t be necessary. He suspects she’ll be downright docile come morning. 


End file.
